


My Little Lamb

by 44TayLo



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Because apparently that's my favorite headcanon, M/M, Poetry, Poetry Nerd Bruce, Sick Tony, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, with a little hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8539858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/44TayLo/pseuds/44TayLo
Summary: "'You’re nursing a lamb back to health, right?' Tony pointed out. 'If nothing else, that counts for something.''Mm. My Little Lamb.' Bruce grinned, kissing his temple.Tony groaned in distaste. He didn’t want the nickname to stick, but for Bruce…Well, for Bruce he was willing to do most anything. Yawning, he decided to get comfortable again against Bruce’s chest. 'I think the reading helped. That or the exhausting process of dealing with emotions. Read another?'"Tony is sick, but not very good at taking it easy. Bruce reads poems to help him rest.Prompted by ellewritesfiction on tumblr.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ellewritesfiction asked: Stubborn sick!Tony fic where Bruce makes him settle down and rest and reads to him? This is an idea I’ve never managed to conquer myself lol but I love it. The irony of Bruce making someone else settle down and do nothing when he is just as stubborn is not lost on me… ;-) 
> 
> I may have lost a bit of the prompt in my extreme desire to add poetry to every fic with Bruce.
> 
> All of the poetry is by William Blake, not me (obviously, as if I could write as well as Blake :P)

Tony didn’t really “do” sick. He’d shrugged off death so many times at this point that viruses, bacteria, and some fungi could collectively kiss his metal ass. Besides, even if he didn’t have a fantastic immune system, what was a cold or the flu after kicking palladium poisoning?

That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway.

If he was being honest, he’d started to feel less than healthy last night. Down in the shop, repairing battle-damaged armor, he’d felt a prickling at the back of his throat. His eyes burned with what he told himself was a perfectly normal level of exhaustion at that point in the night. He’d called it quits around eight o’clock and headed to his and Bruce’s floor. The other man hadn’t been there when he fell into bed, most likely still in his own lab. Tony willfully ignored the fact that, on the rare occasion he went to sleep earlier than Bruce, he usually had the energy to wait up for him. He’d taken a quick shower, and if he noticed his reflection was flushed while he toweled off, he’d deny it had anything to do with the beginnings of a fever.

He’d put on fresh pajamas and hopped into bed, sneezing a few times during the process. That had just been allergies, of course. In November. “ _Well, autumn allergies certainly weren’t unheard of,”_ he mused before drifting off.

As soon as he shut his eyes, something woke him. He rolled over, his breath catching in stuffed up nostrils and forcing a rattling cough from his chest. Tony opened his eyes to see that Bruce seemed to be getting out of bed, rather than getting into it.

“FRIDAY,” Tony cut himself off, swallowing around the cold pain of nasal drip in his throat. “What time is it?” he croaked.

“About seven in the mornin’,” the AI replied.

Tony groaned, coughing again. He could have sworn he’d just fallen asleep. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will himself to roll out of bed and head to the garage. His whole body ached, and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep. A cold hand pushed the air off of his forehead, causing him to grunt and open his eyes.

Bruce stared down at him, his hand gently combing back his hair. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his brows were pinched. “You look awful,” he said, his hand stilling in his hair.

Tony pulled Bruce’s hand back down to his forehead, sighing in relief as the cold from the other man’s palm soothed his fever. “’M fine,” he assured, though it was anything but convincing. His voice was ragged from the sore throat and nasal drip, while also managing to sound thick and nasally due to congestion.

“Bullshit,” Bruce muttered, carefully extracting his hand. “You’re burning up.”

“Mmm. Am I too hot to handle?” He tried to wiggle his eyebrows, but the affect was somewhat ruined when he had to wipe at his dripping nose.

Bruce huffed out a small laugh. “Oh yeah, you found my kink. It’s excessive amounts of mucus.”

Tony wrinkled his nose and grimaced. “Never say that again.”

Bruce moved towards the bathroom, answering, “Then don’t set me up for that again.”

Sighing, Tony kicked off the blankets. Cool air graced his skin, easing the heat from the fever. He had just about convinced himself to leave the bed and find Bruce, when the man in question returned with a wet rag, a box of tissues, and a small tub of something. Setting the other things aside, Bruce placed the cool rag on his forehead. Tony actually hummed in relief.

“Better?” Bruce asked, an apologetic smile playing about his lips.

“Mhmm,” Tony said by way of answer.

“Good.” He handed Tony a tissue, which the man immediately used, holding the rag in place as he rolled onto his side and blew his nose. Tony rolled onto his back once again, exhausted from just that.

“I’m not sick, you know,” Tony insisted. He knew it was a lost cause, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit defeat.

“Uh huh, sure,” Bruce replied, not even bothering to look at Tony as he fiddled with the container he’d brought.

“’Well ‘m not,” he muttered petulantly. “Just…tired. And I have fall allergies. Did you know I have fall allergies?”

The smell of menthol filled the air, and Tony finally worked out what was in that little tub.

“I hate that stuff,” he insisted rubbing at his tired eyes.

“It’ll help. I promise,” Bruce insisted. Tony could tell by the closeness of his voice that Bruce was leaning over him, now.

“Why can’t you just give me meds?” he groaned.

“This is better. Most cold medicine is just a quick fix. Decongestants can make you worse in the long run, and we actually don’t want to bring down your fever unless it gets dangerously high.”

A hand begin petting Tony’s hair again. He leaned into the touch, finally opening his eyes and meeting Bruce's gaze. Tony stared into those concerned, brown eyes for a long moment before conceding, “Fine. But I’m not sick. Is this how you’d treat seasonal allergies, Doctor Banner?” Tony asked, a playful lilt to his otherwise sick tone.

Bruce snorted, pulling up Tony’s sleep shirt as he did so.

Tony smirked. “I assume your attempt to undress me is strictly professional, doc?” The line ended in another coughing fit.

“Right now, Mister Stark? Yes,” he affirmed. Despite his playful tone, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the mess of scars that was Tony’s chest. “But only because you’re sick.” He said it so gently, that the lasciviousness of the statement was completely lost.

Tony found himself stuck somewhere between being deeply touched that Bruce was taking such good care of him, or being embarrassed by his own weakness. He felt sort of pitiful, at the moment. And yeah, okay, he could concede that he was probably a little sick. He admitted as much to Bruce.

“I know, Tony. It’s okay to get sick.”

“You don’t,” Tony grumbled as Bruce began to rub the menthol on his chest.

“No, but not all of us have poisonous blood that kills viruses,” Bruce pointed out, his expression suddenly grim.

He hated when Bruce said things like that. Whatever self-deprecating statement that went unsaid always lingered heavily in the air, choking the breath out of Tony. He hated the insinuation that Bruce himself was poison.

“It’s not poisonous,” he insisted.

Bruce stilled his hands to make eye contact and raise an eyebrow in challenge.

“It’s…caustic?” Tony offered.

Bruce snorted again. “Oh yeah, like that’s better,” he muttered, but he was smiling ever so slightly. They sat in silence, Bruce rubbing menthol over his chest, into the dip in his collar bone, and, to Tony’s unfortunate surprise, directly under his nose.

“Hey!” he protested, only to cough again. Bruce responded by grabbing the washcloth from his forehead and flipping it over. The renewed cold from the washcloth, and from the menthol beginning to do its trick, stopped Tony’s protests in their tracks.

“I’m going to make you hot water with lemon and honey, and I want you to drink it,” Bruce said very seriously. “You need to stay hydrated, and the honey and lemon will help your throat.”

Tony could only grunt in the affirmative. There was really no use arguing with Bruce, at this point.

“The water’s done biolin’, Doc.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” Bruce responded, heading towards the door.

Tony sighed, letting the silence fuel his drowsiness. He fantasized about sneaking off to the shop while Bruce was gone, but he just couldn’t convince his aching body to do it. Finally, he let his eyes slip closed.

When he woke up again, he found Bruce sitting next to him. The man was stretched out on the bed, a book in his lap and his glasses perched adorably on his nose.

“What’re you reading?” he asked muzzily.

Bruce looked down at him, smiling gently. “Blake,” he answered, closing the book. He set it down in favor of reaching for something on the bedside table. “Steve made eggs,” he explained, as he held the plate in his lap. “You really should eat something.”

Tony pushed himself into a sitting position. He grunted from the strain, leaning back against the headboard. The washcloth fell from his forehead and onto his lap. He went to move it, but Bruce beat him too it.

“What time is it?” Tony asked.

“It’s ten in the mornin’,” FRIDAY answered automatically. “You slept for quite a while.”

Bruce hummed. “You didn’t sleep that long for someone who’s sick. And you really should eat and drink some honey water.”

Obediently, Tony took the proffered plate. Steve’s scrambled eggs were pretty much legendary. Tony only wished he could taste them better, but his congestion was dulling most of his senses. He’d only just finished, when Bruce thrust a thermos into his hands and removed the plate. The honey water actually did feel nice on his throat. He hadn’t realized he’d been hungry or thirsty until he finished everything Bruce had brought him.

Bruce took the thermos from him and placed his palm on Tony’s forehead. “You’re temperature feels lower. FRIDAY?”

“Tony’s temperature is 37.6 degrees Celsius.”

“Well, that’s better,” Bruce mused. He ran his hand through Tony’s hair, causing the sick man to lean into his touch. “You should probably try to rest some more.”

Tony opened his eyes, frowning. “I’m not tired.”

“You don’t necessarily have to sleep. Do you want to watch something?” Bruce suggested. “Work on the tablet?”

“I should go down to the garage,” Tony insisted, “try to fix up the armor before another psycho decides to try to bomb New York.” He made no move to get up, though. Exhaustion rendered him practically immobile, but he still wasn’t ready to go back to sleep. He hated feeling useless. If someone attacked, what was he supposed to do? He was too weak to fight them off.

Bruce shifted so that his whole body now faced Tony.  “If that happens, and the odds of it happening while you’re sick are incredibly small, by the way, I’m sure the rest of the team can deal with it.”

Tony frowned. “Gotta be honest, that’s mildly insulting.” It wasn’t that he wanted the team to be useless without him, but the idea that his presence didn’t mean a damn thing stung.

“Not what I mean,” Bruce insisted with a roll of his eyes. “You’re an integral part of the team, don’t be a dumbass. It’s not a good look on you. And I promise to shoot you up with adrenaline if the world’s in trouble and you’re the only one who can save it.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Okay, that. Do that now!”

“No! Tony.” Bruce sighed, obviously exasperated. “You need to rest and get better. The adrenaline would only be a temporary fix.”

Tony shrugged, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose. “If you say so, but the adrenaline seems like a good idea.”

Bruce considered him for a moment before shifting once more so he was sitting against the headboard, mimicking Tony’s position. He put an arm around the sick man’s shoulders, pulling Tony to himself.

“Okay,” Tony muttered, nuzzling Bruce’s chest the tiniest bit, though he’d never admit it. “This is slightly better.”

Bruce hummed in agreement, letting his temple come to rest on the top of Tony’s head.

It seemed weird that Bruce would stay here with him. Just because Tony was sick, that didn’t mean Bruce couldn’t work on his own projects. He appreciated it, definitely. He wasn’t used to someone taking care of him like this, and it really touched him. The fact that within Bruce there was a giant, Tony-protecting rage monster was an added bonus. Any sort of weakness set Tony on edge, allowing his anxiety and paranoia to creep up on him, so having the Big Guy near was almost as comforting as having Bruce stay with him.

However, it was possible Bruce was only hanging out with him because he thought he had to. Tony might not possess many self-preservation skills, but he was an adult. He could take care of a cold by himself.

“You know,” Tony began, pausing immediately to consider his next words. He didn’t want Bruce to leave, but he didn’t want him to stay if he was doing so out of obligation. “I can take care of myself. You can leave, if you want.”

“I know, Tony,” Bruce murmured, his fingers trailing gently up and down the sick man’s arm. “But if I leave, you won’t rest. And I really don’t mind staying.”

“I mean…” Tony sniffled again. There was definitely some truth to that. If Bruce wasn’t here, he’d probably go down to the shop. “You’re not wrong.”

Bruce looked down at him and grinned. “I’m rarely wrong.”

“I think I’m rubbing off on you…” He waved his hand in a vague gesture. “In, you know, a metaphorical sense. For now.”

Bruce groaned, but he was still smiling. “You’re awful.”

Tony sighed, closing his eyes again. “I feel awful,” he admitted. He gave into the desire to be comforted and placed a hand on Bruce’s chest.

“Which is why you should sleep,” Bruce insisted.

“I’m not tired.”

“So you’ve said. Would it help if…”

Tony could hear the hesitation in Bruce’s voice. He opened his eyes, staring up at the other man. Bruce almost seemed embarrassed.

“What?” Tony asked.

“Well, would you want me to read to you?”

Tony blinked. He considered it for half a second before making up his mind. “I would actually really like that.”

“Yeah?” Bruce seemed to perk up at that. “Anything specific?”

“Whatever you were reading before is fine. I just like listening to your very sexy voice.”

Bruce chuckled at that. He pulled his knees up, balancing the book on his thighs and using his free hand to hold it in place.

 _“Little Lamb who made thee_  
_Dost thou know who made thee_  
_Gave thee life & bid thee feed._  
_By the stream & o’er the mead;_  
_Gave thee clothing of delight,_  
_Softest clothing wooly bright;_  
_Gave thee such a tender voice,_  
_Making all the vales rejoice!_  
_Little Lamb who made thee_  
_Dost thou know who made thee”_

Tony marveled at the richness of Bruce’s voice, the way he let the words hang in the air and seemed to give them life.

  
_“Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,_  
_Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!_  
_He is called by thy name,_  
_For he calls himself a Lamb:_  
_He is meek & he is mild,_  
_He became a little child:_  
_I a child & thou a lamb,_  
_We are called by his name._  
_Little Lamb God bless thee._  
_Little Lamb God bless thee”_

Tony felt, rather than heard, the chuckle stuck in Bruce’s chest. He looked up at Bruce through his thick lashes.

“What’s so funny?”

Bruce smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I should start calling you my ‘Little Lamb’?”

“No. I’m vetoing that right now,” Tony said vehemently. He started to push himself upright. In response, Bruce simply tightened his grip around Tony’s shoulders, ceasing his movements. “I am not a lamb, Bruce,” Tony protested.

“Well, you certainly aren’t a tiger.”

“I am totally a tiger. I’m definitely a tiger over a lamb,” Tony insisted. Bruce liked to poke at his ego from time to time, but Tony wasn’t really in the mood to downplay his own insecurities right now. He just didn’t have the energy.

“Not in the metaphorical sense. Tones, you’re tough as nails, you don’t have to convince me, of all people. Hang on.” He flipped through the book before landing on the desired page. “Listen to this:

 _Tyger Tyger, burning bright,_  
_In the forests of the night;_  
_What immortal hand or eye,_  
_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”_

“Fearful symmetry sounds just like me,” Tony interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bruce just shushed him before continuing,  
  
_“In what distant deeps or skies._  
_Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_  
_On what wings dare he aspire?_  
_What the hand, dare seize the fire?_  
  
_And what shoulder, & what art,_  
_Could twist the sinews of thy heart?_  
_And when thy heart began to beat,_  
_What dread hand? & what dread feet?_  
  
_What the hammer? what the chain,_  
_In what furnace was thy brain?_  
_What the anvil? what dread grasp,_  
_Dare its deadly terrors clasp!”_

Bruce paused, staring at the page. He seemed distressed, his brows drawn and lips pressed into a thin line.

“Bruce? Is that it?” Tony asked. When Bruce didn’t respond, Tony nudged him. “Bruce?” he asked again.

“Hm?” Bruce glanced at him. “Sorry. No, that’s not the end. The rest is,

  
_When the stars threw down their spears_  
_And water’d heaven with their tears:_  
_Did he smile his work to see?_  
_Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_  
  
_Tyger Tyger burning bright,_  
_In the forests of the night:_  
_What immortal hand or eye,_  
_Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?”_

Bruce fell silent when the poem finally finished.

“I still think the tiger sounds pretty badass,” Tony said, breaking the silence.

That forced a small smile out of Bruce. The other man kept his eyes resolutely on the poem, though.  “Yes, he is.”

Tony pushed himself upright, and this time Bruce didn’t try to stop him. “You’re not the tiger, Bruce,” Tony said, his voice soft, despite its rough quality from the cold. When he didn’t respond, Tony grasped Bruce’s chin and gently turned the man’s head. Bruce still refused to make eye contact, his gaze on the space between them.

“Look at me,” Tony asked, more than demanded. Bruce complied, though he seemed uncertain. “If there is a god, I don’t think he was afraid while he was making you, or that he was afraid of you. Have you looked at yourself recently? You’re adorable. Not exactly terrifying.” Tony pulled one of Bruce’s loose curls and let it go, causing it to spring back.

Despite Bruce’s efforts to hide it, Tony caught sight of the smile on his face. The man still refused to meet his gaze, though.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

Tony huffed. “Don’t give me that. The Hulk has never intentionally hurt anyone who wasn’t hurting him.”

“Intentions aren’t—”

“Bruce,” Tony interrupted, his voice firm. “Love of my life, I don’t have the energy to have this argument right now. But rest assured, someday I’m going to convince you that you’re a good person.” He swiped a thumb along other man’s cheek bone.

Bruce huffed out a watery laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay. Now come here and kiss me.”

Bruce ducked away, his laughter getting louder and more genuine. “You’re sick!”

“Yeah, but you can’t get sick!” Tony reminded him, still chasing Bruce’s lips with his own.

Bruce carefully pushed him away, still laughing. “You have snot on your lip!”

Tony stopped his assault in favor of finding a tissue. “Well, if that’s the only issue…” He blew his nose, tossing the tissue away and smirking. “Now where were we?”

This time, Bruce initiated the kiss. It was quick, but sweet, and he held the sick man tightly. Even after they pulled away, Bruce continued to hold him. And Tony, well, he let himself be held.

“You’re nursing a lamb back to health, right?” Tony pointed out. “If nothing else, that counts for something.”

“Mm. My Little Lamb.” Bruce grinned, kissing his temple.

Tony groaned in distaste. He didn’t want the nickname to stick, but for Bruce…Well, for Bruce he was willing to do most anything. Yawning, he decided to get comfortable again against Bruce’s chest. “I think the reading helped. That or the exhausting process of dealing with emotions. Read another?”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed, going back to stroking Tony’s hair. “Yeah, okay.

_Love seeketh not itself to please,_

_Nor for itself hath any care,_

_But for another gives its ease,_

_And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair…"_

 

As Tony felt himself begin to drift off again, he couldn’t help but reminisce on how different his life had become in such a short amount of time. He and Bruce had only been together for sixth months, and already he couldn’t imagine life without the other man. This relationship… it was working. They made each other better people. They took care of each other, looked out for each other, both on and off the battlefield. Bruce would be there when he woke up, and he’d help him bounce back from this stupid cold. With that in mind, Tony decided to let himself fall asleep. Because he realized that for the first time in years, he felt safe.

**Author's Note:**

> The first poem is The Lamb, the second is The Tyger, and the third is part of The Clod and The Pebble.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated! :)
> 
> Feel free to send me prompts on tumblr. My URL is supersecretsciencebrosclub.


End file.
